


The Serpent of Seattle

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Blood, Breaking and Entering, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Noir, Gen, Guns, Hanamiya Keeps Reader Alive Out Of Personal Interest, Hard-Boiled Crime, Implied Death, Mob Boss Hanamiya, Seattle, Slang, Stalking, Threats of Violence, deTECTIVE READER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "One thing is made clear instantaneously, and that is that you do indeed have an intruder—but it's also transparent that he's made no effort to stow himself away in the many shadows the dimly lit apartment has to offer. He is sitting, conspicuously dressed, on the couch in the center of the living room with a Colt pistol resting in his lap. It's a commercial government model and you briefly wonder if he's chosen this particular series by means of mockery." After Hanamiya discovers that reader is the reason for some of his most recent obstacles, he decides to pay her a personal visit.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	The Serpent of Seattle

**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine wanted me to write some hard-boiled fiction with Hanamiya so here you have it. It's just a fun little piece I threw together. I hope you enjoy it!

The year is 1952 and you're walking home after another long day spent working your fingers to the bone. Ink still stains your skin from flipping through time-worn newspapers and the yellowed pages of historical documents. Your wrists have already begun to show signs of carpal tunnel syndrome and you can't seem to do away with the thick callouses on your middle finger from the countless days spent jotting down notes about probable crimes and their potential rebels.

The air is crisp but not unpleasant, the temperature somewhere in the mid-40s. You pause briefly on the corner of Union Street and 8th Avenue, your eyes scanning Seattle's Ambassador Hotel from concrete to asphalt. You recall a case your father worked on some 15 years ago, one that involved the kidnapping of a young boy and a pair of hoodlums. The very hotel that's casting you in a honeycomb shadow had been briefly involved in the crime, but this particular case ended on a positive note, and justice was ultimately served—something you wish could be said with more frequency.

You start walking again, this time toward 9th Avenue, where The Cambridge Apartments are set against the backdrop of First Hill. A large sign bearing the building's name sits upon the rooftop and the brick facade dominates the northwest corner of the angled slope. It wouldn't be your first choice for lodgment but it houses what you need to subsist, and as long as you're able to make ends meet, you're well content.

You have today's _Seattle Post-Intelligencer_ tucked away inside of your jacket, the front page reading: _G.O.P WARD LEADER DIES IN CHICAGO 'GANG' SLAYING_. There are several corresponding articles about the city along with snippets regarding London and the Queen printed across the front, but nothing in direct relation to the case you're currently working on. That doesn't mean, however, that the paper isn't worth a good read, especially when accompanied by a tall glass of wine.

When you finally reach your building you make your way past a maroon Buick Roadmaster, a blue Chevy Coupe, and a black Ford Model T, all of which you've seen many times before. In fact, the Roadmaster belongs to a nice middle-aged gent at the end of your hall. He's plucky and likes to tell tales of his gallantry, and he's a bit of a playboy, but he's harmless all the same.

It's the polished green and black Cadillac Town Sedan, however, that catches your eye. It's not unusual for people to invite guests over to their apartments but with your line of work, observation has become more than a habit and you can't help sight the unfamiliar and out of place. Furthermore, it's a model you've associated with far too many gangsters to find comfort in its presence.

You step through a door illuminated by sidelights that leads into the building, nodding your head at a young couple, presumably headed out for a date, you recognize as James and Mary Anderson from the floor beneath your own. Once over the threshold, you make your way to the stairs and climb up to the third floor. You have no fear of elevators, and it's less about keeping up appearances and more about staying in good physical condition.

You step out into a fairly well-lit hall and traipse down the corridor until you reach the two-paneled wood door with the bird's nest wreath hanging on its front, hung there just before Christmas. It's a bit tacky with its twin toy birds and moss green velvet bow but you simply can't be bothered to take it down when there are more pressing matters on your mind. You begin to draw a skeleton key out of your pocket when you notice that something is amiss.

You step to the side of your apartment door and draw your Colt revolver out of the holster hugging close to your hip. The metal plate surrounding the lock is free from any evidence pointing to intrusion, but the sliver-crack between the door and its frame rouses your suspicion in the name of disquiet. In all the years you've been living in Cambridge, and to the amusement of those in the building, you're one of the few who bothers to lock their door. It's made you a bit of a target among the other tenants but despite their innocuous one-liners, you have never forgotten to do so.

You immediately recall the peculiar vehicle outside and feel the hair on the back of your neck stir with precautionary unease. Thinking that now is as good a time as any, you cautiously toe open the door and after a brief moment, you step inside, your senses working on high alert.

One thing is made clear instantaneously, and that is that you do indeed have an intruder—but it's also transparent that he's made no effort to stow himself away in the many shadows the dimly lit apartment has to offer. He is sitting, conspicuously dressed, on the couch in the center of the living room with a Colt pistol resting in his lap. It's a commercial government model and you briefly wonder if he's chosen this particular series by means of mockery.

“You must be a real wise guy if you think that I won't fog you for breaking into my apartment. If you're who I think you are, you should be up the river by now, or down in Roxhill where they're pulling in the floaters. I suggest you get to spilling your guts as to why you're here. I'll give you to the count of three to start talking, if you move, I'll plug you,” you tell him, aiming your gun at his face.

“No pleasantries or idle chitchat? No, you like to cut right to the chase, don't you?” the black-haired man says, a sharp and crooked sneer on his lips. “I respect that in a woman.” He rests his hand on his own gun but his fingers are as relaxed as his posture.

“I imagine you don't have respect for much, mugg. I've got so much dirt on you that I could bury you and all your cronies with it. Now, start talking,” you demand, the rough edge of your tone underscoring your strongly impatient mood.

“Why don't we start with you telling me who you think I am? I'll be sorely disappointed if you've got me mixed up with the wrong man.” He shifts on your couch and moves his pistol somewhere near his hip as he rests his left leg over the bend of his right knee. “And while you're at it, why don't you elaborate on this _dirt_ you claim to have on me.”

“You're Hanamiya Makoto, leader of one of the three Tokyo families that dominate organized crime activities in Seattle. You came here from Japan a few years ago to expand on a vending machine business and with the hopes to freely operate several underground gambling rings. You went through a brief stint of hardship when a fire claimed one of your supply houses but it would seem that you were quick to get back into the grift.”

You realign your hold on the gun's grip and begin to move further into the center of the room. “Word has it that you recently met with the Imayoshi crime family's leader about bolstering his strip-club business in exchange for ice and jack. He's a real wise-head, that one, been splitting hundred-dollar bills for months.” You exhale a hiss of revulsion and refocus your gaze on Hanamiya, who remains inscrutable despite the gleam of amusement sparkling in his eyes, warm in color but cold in appearance.

“I don't need to tell you that he's a bad seed, what with his cokie stool-pigeons and cheeky plugs. You're one of the same. I don't need to look through your stacks to know that I could have you pinched for extortion, money laundering, corruption, fraud, racketeering, and prostitution. Just to name a few,” you spit, finding yourself growing rife with anger as time ticks off the clock on the wall.

“I do hope you're not suggesting that I'm doing the prostituting,” Hanamiya quips, an arrogant smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He slides off of the couch and straightens his spine, pulling the slouch of his shoulders into proper alignment.

You take a prudent step backward to put more distance between you, never letting your gaze stray from Hanamiya's sharp features. “I've given you what you asked for. Now it's your turn. Tell me why you're here. If you're plannin' to grease me, you might as well go climb up your thumb. I didn't earn my buzzer working with the likes of you and I don't plan on that changing. Not now, not ever. I've seen enough of your types to know what you're after. Sharp-shooters and fast-dollar boys, always looking for the big money and little roundheels to shack up with. You'd rather squib off your kind for a dollar than think about integrity. There's no limit to the moral baseness of men like you, men of avarice and lust.”

Hanamiya arches an eyebrow and slides the tip of his tongue between the seam of his lips. “Is that what you think, _detective_? Funny that, you being a PI when most women 'round here either spend their days at home or their nights out on the streets. Seems like not all the tramps in this town want to dig for gold, after all. That's not to say that you're not capable of having a good time.”

Hanamiya reaches into the dark shadows of his long jacket and pulls out a thick envelope. You tighten your grip on your gun, providing that he has a trick up his sleeve, but he merely drops the heavy paper onto your coffee table. “I bet you're a real pistol in bed, sweetheart,” Hanamiya continues fluidly, _mockingly_ , as if he never stopped speaking at all. He walks toward you and you find that you no longer have any desire to back away from him. You know that he's testing your limits, and perhaps this is what some would deem surrender, but you refuse to exhibit a single grain of weakness in his company. You stand tall and hold your weapon firmly, never once breaking eye contact.

“If you have any brains left in that pretty little head of yours, and I suspect that you do, I advise you to stop sticking your nose in places where it doesn't belong. I would be ever so sorry if I had to stir up trouble in such a pleasant town,” Hanamiya warns, his gaze boring you to the wall at your back like a butterfly pinned to a board.

“I'll be pushed in the face by lead bullets before I _ever_ give in to a chiseler like you. Now get lost before I put one of these bullets in your conk and take whatever that” –you flit your free hand at the envelope on the table– “is with you.”

“Consider it a gift,” Hanamiya says, his voice thick and shot-through with honey. He takes a single step forward but it's enough that it brings him within inches of your unshakable frame.

You drag your gaze down his face, unable to hide your vexation behind the disgusted expression that's twisting your features. “Whatever it is, I don't want it.”

“You will, _eventually,_ ” Hanamiya lilts, almost purring as he reaches out to stroke his fingers over the contour of your cheek. “They always do,” he finishes, his reference to people as evident in his remark as the deep scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, visible even behind a dark curtain of too-long fringe.

“Take your mitts off me,” you spit, slapping Hanamiya's hand away from your face. “I'm no bitch in heat and if you think your charms will make a loose woman out of me, you're dreadfully mistaken.”

“There's a saying I find myself using a lot lately,” Hanamiya tells you, making his way over to your door as if he's lived in your apartment for years. It's unsettling, to say the least, but what's worse is the thought that follows: you wonder if he's been here before. He flicks a chip of paint off of your wall, then turns to face you directly, a wry smile on his lips. “Only time will tell.” He tugs open your door and steps out into the hall, while simultaneously reaching into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. “I'll see you soon, ____,” he calls out, your name echoing down the hall as your blood runs cold at the sound of it on his lips.

You quickly close your door and fumble the skeleton key you produced earlier into place, twisting your wrist to fit the mechanism into the warded lock. Once secure, you phone the police station, citing Hanamiya's whereabouts and a brief rundown of the events that just took place. You can hear the scratch of a pen against paper as the evening officer quickly jots down your address. He clears his throat and rallies up the deputy before he issues you a few, needless, words of verbal reassurance. He hurriedly disconnects the call, and as you're placing your phone's receiver back onto its cradle, you remember the envelope.

You make your way over to the coffee table and glance down at the sealed pouch. You sit down on the edge of your couch, the cushion still warm where Hanamiya was sitting, and take the thick envelope into your hands. You tear a corner of the paper before inhaling a deep breath, then you rip open the top of the thin enclosure. You glance down into the package, half-expecting a finger or something equally grotesque to occupy its bottom. Instead, to your surprise, there's a large wad of money stuffed inside.

You have no interest in keeping the envelope's contents despite the fact that you earn less than half the wage that your male counterparts do, but this fact does nothing to lessen your curiosity. You lean forward and tip the pouch's contents out onto the table in front of you. A sizable portion of the green bills flutter loosely on the air before hitting the solid surface but the rest of the currency has hit the table with a dull thud, each soaked through with viscous patches of blood, still-damp and a bright shade of red that has yet to darken with time and oxidation.

You have no concept of how much time has passed, with your elbow pressing hard into your knee and your chin held up by the clammy palm of your hand—so when the phone rings loudly against the backdrop of the room and breaks the silence, you nearly fall off of the couch in your startled haste to answer it.

You answer the call with trembling fingers and shaky knees, an involuntary state of reaction that comes with the territory no matter how well acclimated you've become to dark pictures and gloomy forebodings.

“I'm sorry, ____,” the man on the other line says, his voice scattering through the static crackling in the scrim of fog. “We're going to keep a look-out for him but it seems like he pulled a fast one on us. No surprise, being that it's Hanamiya. That guy is slipperier than an eel.” He sounds half-amused, half-disappointed, and you can't help but feel annoyed that he can find any humor in the situation at all. Then he says, “We did find something of interest though. Not sure if it means much, but there was an old hair clip lying where you said his assumed car was parked. It's silver, for the most part, looks like it could use some polishing. If I had to guess, I'd say it's from around the 20s. At any rate, it's stained with blood so we're going to see what we can do with this.”

It feels like all of the blood in your veins has congealed in your heart, which was racing only seconds ago but now feels as if it's stopped entirely. You have to work to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, and if you didn't know better, you would reach your fingers into your moistureless aperture in search of the cotton filling it.

“Initials,” you manage, and clear your throat in an attempt to shake apart the question you want to ask. “Are there initials on the clip? On the inside?”

The officer remains silent for a brief moment before his voice pours into your ear. “There may be, it's hard to tell what's beneath the blood-stain but it looks like there might be something. Why? Do you think you know who it belonged to?” he asks, curiosity sharping into concern. And there's something even more unsettling about the fact that he's assuming its owner is already deceased.

You close your eyes and hear the phone receiver creak in your white-knuckled grip. “Yes. My mother.” With that, you place the hard plastic down on the countertop and make your way into your bedroom, the officer's voice fading into the background.

Your heart is hammering in your chest and for as much as you want to check the hair clip's location for its existence, you already know what you'll find. It would be easy to surmise that Hanamiya stole the clip before you arrived home and smeared it with blood before dropping it on the pavement to make some kind of sick statement.

If only it hadn't gone missing three weeks ago—around the same time you woke up with a proverbial phrase ringing through your ears in an unfamiliar voice, almost as if it were spoken to you in a dream that carried over into reality.

_Only time will tell._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
